229 Following











At the Corall


neither the shepherd

nor the sheep





The true leader has no pact, only his or her mind, and is not a. passenger or part of a crowd. He or she is not a cultivator.


Half the world believes the shepherd knows the path, and flock to be his sheep. For thousands of years the shepherd they follow was not there, but there were other shepherds, each with their own path, or perhaps each building their own extensions to the path.


For some, time spent reflecting under the shade of a tree is worth more than being coralled. They have no need to corall others, either. They spurn the busy path, and yet, they seem to know the way.













There's Always the Sun, Or God, Or...


in this spinning world

a web of intrigue to capture you

there's always a spider





so versatile

these waves, at once giving

then later, killing again


Many a mariner spends his life reaching out to shores, and yet even in the most exotic of destinations the thrill of swaying palm trees is quickly a motion too soothing for the soul of the man who spends much of his time glancing at the horizon, and for whom a hurricane or monsoon is most naturally experienced at sea, where battle with the elements is not a second-hand affair.

Within Nature



songs of sustenance

are not said around tables in prayer

but meditated upon

out where trees shelter

and brooks wet lips




Voyager's Lament



veiled whispers come to me

from a past I can feel but not touch

how to answer to a calling

that is but an echo

slipped from my hand


I never did take a yak over the Hindu Kush, along the Khyber Pass. I never did a few of the other things I planned to do when only adventure filled my heart. 


I don't suppose I would have got far, anyway, in the streets of Kabul, with a yak.


in eyes is burden

in the yak's the weight of baggage

in mine memories



do the trees

resist the wind

or just assert

their right

to be








"Just the two of us, just the two of us, we'll carry on....." singing to myself, an old Supertramp song from the young days.

The Bellydancer's Yoga

She tells me secrets, stories, with her hips, her fingers and her hair. Her aroma follows her and her moves follow the notes that float. 


if I only knew

to play the oud

we'd have seen

the beautiful world

you and I




The Smile


Perhaps this time I'll look up. Who knows. The last car that came for me was some time back. A long time ago in plain English. Actually it was a van, and it had a siren, and if there is no siren its not gonna be for me, and I am definitely not the curious type.


no dead leaves

to keep me warm this spring

sweet rain

your freshness makes me smile

no-one notices



The good news is that along with no siren, there is no gunshot either, as these days, with looking after my back, I am somewhat susceptible.


Indian Warrior



the best legacy

taste of indian warrior for breakfast

-reminder of better ways





Native to areas of Oregon and California, and a testament to the culture that did things the right way with nature, before the arrivals of the new kind of folk with their desire to dominate.


Blues and Bells




and yet no tinkling

in the breeze





this fragile beauty

holding such power over






I, like the bees

can hear the bluebells calling

alas they call not for me











The rain drips on silent umbrellas. Or rather continues to drip, as it was dripping before I wrote these words. 


I don't need shelter. Perhaps people seek comfort too much. When did standing out in pouring rain become bad for one, I wonder, and write that I wonder, though in fact I don't really.


In the hills of East Africa some carried umbrellas against the sun, and the blue of corydalis flower lay scattered over the mountains. Not raindrops but trying.


past memories

dribble downwards

the flowers grow













The Monk




mumbling monk

one last mantra before bed

with a belly full of rice



Only the Breeze





only the breeze comes in

as the world spins

outside the bar window



Sights Unseen



She waits. Dusk painted in stripes across the sky. A banner, motionless, like the past, just an image, freely available through time's looking glass but no longer valid.


Sound, stays, in the present though. And the future has only virtues. 


And so, another day done. Another banner to be folded and set.


She sighs, and hears her sigh.


I stand, and watch the setting day in all its colours, and feel her silence.


But that is already the past.


at sunset

all is quiet again



The Rising


only mosquitos

rise with me today-

all that is left